


The Bruises Left Behind

by majorhtom



Series: Resigned to Fate [2]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c., The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: AU, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Brexit, Cancer, Childhood Memories, Cocaine, Death, Depressing, Depression, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Extramarital Affairs, First Meetings, Gen, General elections, Heavy Angst, I mean it, I suppose it’s a two shot now, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Infant Death, It has not gone out beta’d, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of the Iraq War, Minor Character Death, No Beta, Premature Birth, Scots Language, Stillbirth, Two Shot, Vignettes, author is not fluent and consulted their Harry Potter Scots book, bad usage of Scots language, brexit Referendum, mentions of 9/11, mentions of aids, public inquiries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-11
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-10-14 06:43:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20596433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorhtom/pseuds/majorhtom
Summary: Jamie pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. “Mate, it’s... I’m...” he sighed and put his phone in front of Malcolm. “When you feel better, call this number, yeah? They helped me. They’ll help you too.”After meeting a young blind adult who looks suspiciously like him, Malcolm’s past gets dragged up again, including parts he thought he’d left behind, parts he was sure he’d left behind.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry to do this.  
I’m going to warn you right now, get your Lewis Capaldi album on.  
Companion piece to a yet to be released chapter of The Long Arduous Summer Of 2019. Only this piece is the Director’s Cut.

Jamie pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. “Mate, it’s... I’m...” he sighed and put his phone in front of Malcolm. “When you feel better, call this number, yeah? They helped me. They’ll help you too.” 

Malcolm picked Jamie’s phone up to look. Jamie had searched for the number of Sands; the Stillborn And Neonatal Death charity. He nodded at Jamie, giving his phone back. 

Jamie nodded back and quietly picked up a pen and a Post-It, scribbling the number down. He peeled the Post-It from the rest of the stack and put it on Malcolm’s paperwork. He pulled his chair back and stood up. “I’m here, Malc. We’re all here.” 

Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, but no words came out. He looked back at his screen. 

Jamie walked out of the room and quietly closed the door behind him.

Malcolm cleared his throat and dried his eyes. He was a fucking sixty year old man. He _shouldn’t_ be crying. He stood up and with his good arm, he punched the stack of newspapers off his table in a rage. It didn’t help; he still felt very angry. In fact, he didn’t know what he felt. 

He walked back to his desk and sat back down. No longer crying, he took another look at the number Jamie had left. 

He picked his phone from the desk and dialled the number, waiting until someone answered.

* * *

(September 1988)

“No, Malcolm.” Elaine was sitting on the sofa rubbing her belly. She’d just started showing. “I’m not naming my child Hamish.” 

“Why not?” Malcolm chuckled sitting down next to her. “It’s a good, strong Scottish name.” 

“I’m not Scottish.” Elaine said. 

“I am.” Malcolm said. 

“I’m not calling any baby of mine Hamish. It’s ugly!” 

“Alright then, what about Cameron?” Malcolm put his hand on Elaine’s belly. “He could be a little Cameron Tucker.” 

“He could. Or she could be a girl.” 

“Mhairi.” Malcolm said. “After my mother.”

“How do you even spell that?” Elaine asked.

“M-H-A-I-R-I.” 

“No.”

“No?”

“The spelling’s too weird. Vahree-does it begin with an M if it’s... Malc, I don’t want a name I have to think about spelling. And what about _my_ mother?” Elaine asked.

“Your mother’s called Phyllis.” Malcolm said. “Come on El, it’s 1988, not 1888. We can’t call our daughter _Phyllis_.” 

“I don’t want a weird Scottish name.” 

“There are plenty of Scottish names in use around the UK.”

“Like...?”

“Ian.” 

“After your brother?” 

“Why not?” Malcolm asked with a shrug. 

“No, Malcolm.” 

“He’d have loved to have had a nephew named after him.” Malcolm said, remembering the older brother that he’d lost to the AIDS crisis earlier that decade.

“No, Malcolm. It’s just an ugly name.” Elaine said. 

“Jamie.” Malcolm suggested. “Works for a boy or a girl.” 

“No.” 

“Alright, _you_ suggest.” 

“Jessica for a girl.” Elaine said. “Andrew for a boy.” 

“Andrew’s a good Scottish name.” Malcolm said. “I can see it now; Andrew Tucker. I’d teach him how to play football.” 

“You could _never_ teach him to play football, Malc.” Elaine said. “You don’t know the offside rule.” 

“I could go down to any pub and ask.” Malcolm pointed out. “I mean, I’d probably get a pint glass to the face and have this,” he gestured to his face, “handsome face ruined-“

Elaine chuckled. “I didn’t marry you for your good looks, Malcolm Tucker.” 

“That’s a good thing.” Malcolm rubbed his nose. “But no daughter of mine will be called fucking _Jessica_.” 

* * *

(November 1988) 

Malcolm crouched down to the level of his wife’s growing belly as she painted their spare bedroom a bright yellow colour. The spare bedroom that would become their daughter’s bedroom. 

“Ye ken, A’m yer Da? An yer ma wean. Me an yer Mam, we cannae wait tae meet ye.”

“Malcolm, stop speaking to the baby in weird Scottish slang.” Elaine said. 

“It’s how I was brought up speaking.” Malcolm said as he assembled the cot with a screwdriver in his hand.

“Yes well you grew up in _Gorbals_.”

“And you grew up in _Oxford_.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Oxford.” Elaine said. 

“And there’s nothing wrong with Gorbals.” Malcolm countered. “In fact, when Maisie’s old enough, I’m going to take her there. See where I grew up.” He put his hand and face to Elaine’s belly. “Ye hear tha’, ma wee lassie? Yer Da’s gonna spayl ye.” 

“She can’t hear you, Malcolm.” Elaine said. 

“If takin tae hoose plants maks them grow, then takin tae a wee babby maks them grow.” Malcolm reasoned.

Elaine laughed. “I have _no_ idea what you just said.” 

“It wiznae flattering tae ye.” Malcolm joked.

“Now _that_ I understood.” Elaine swiped Malcolm with her paintbrush leaving a yellow streak across his t-shirt. 

A grin spread across Malcolm’s face and he dipped his much smaller paintbrush into the pot of pink paint he had on the floor and swiped down her nose with it. 

“Malcolm!” Elaine complained, rubbing it off, but laughing. “Oh Malcolm.” She grabbed his hand and put it to her belly. “She’s kicking again.” 

Malcolm savoured the moment of feeling his daughter kicking. Tomorrow, he’d be back at work, sitting at his desk as he tried to find interesting stories to tell. But for now, it was a peaceful moment between him and his wife. 

* * *

(March 1989)

“Malcolm.” Elaine grabbed his hand. “I can’t do this alone. I’m scared.”

“It’s alright.” Malcolm held her hand in both of his. “I promise. We’ll get through the birth. And soon, when we’re cleaning nappies and doing night feeds, you won’t remember this. All you’ll know is life with Maisie.” 

The sonographer entered the room. “Alright, So you’re having a baby. Congratulations Mr and Mrs Tucker.” 

“She’ll be our first.” Elaine said. 

“Ah, I had my first five years ago.” The sonographer said. “Twins. Danielle and Michael. Since then I’ve had a singleton, Jennifer. Have you thought of a name?” 

Malcolm nodded. 

“Yes we have.” Elaine said. 

“Alright then. Let’s see how your baby’s doing. Can you please unbutton your shirt.” 

“Malcolm-“ Elaine grabbed Malcolm’s hand and gripped it tight. 

“It’s alright.” Malcolm said. “I’m here.” With his free hand, he managed to unbutton Elaine’s blouse, leaving her lying on the bed with her bra exposed. Then he gently kissed her head. “You’re doing well.” 

“You’re Scottish!” The sonographer said reaching for the gel. “My husband’s Scottish too. He’s from Edinburgh.” 

“Glasgow.” Malcolm said. 

“Alright, this will be cold.” The sonographer squeezed the ultrasound gel onto Elaine’s big baby belly and picked up the ultrasound wand. 

“Malc.” Elaine looked at the screen at their baby. “Look.” 

“I can see her.” Malcolm said with a smile.

The sonographer frowned as she moved the wand over Elaine’s belly. “I’m just having a bit of trouble finding the heartbeat. I’m sure it’s there somewhere.” She said, turning the screen away, so Malcolm and Elaine couldn’t see it and carried on moving the wand over Elaine’s belly. “She must have turned or something. I’ll go and get another machine.” 

The sonographer put the wand back and walked out of the room. 

Malcolm rubbed his hand on Elaine’s belly, covering his hand in ultrasound gel. 

“Stop it, Malcolm. I’m really scared.” Elaine said. 

“Don’t worry.” Malcolm said. “She’s sure that Maisie’s okay.” 

“But what if she isn’t, Malcolm?” Elaine frowned. “I don’t want to have a caesarean.” 

“Elaine.” Malcolm held Elaine’s hand in his. “I promise. Whatever happens, I’m going to be here for you. I’m going to support you.”

Elaine simply nodded. “I love you, Malc.” 

“I love you too, El.” 

It didn’t take too long for the sonographer to return with a doctor. 

“Hello, Mr and Mrs Tucker. I’m Dr Lewis. Now net’s see if we can’t find a heartbeat.” The doctor said. 

Elaine nodded. “Yeah.”

Dr Lewis picked up the wand and ran it across Elaine’s belly. He frowned as he looked at the grainy black and white image of the baby. He looked at the sonographer. 

“What?” Malcolm asked. 

“I’m so sorry.” Dr Lewis said. “There’s no heartbeat. Your baby’s died.” 

“No. You’re wrong.” Malcolm said. “She-she was moving earlier.” 

“It’s true.” Elaine said. 

“I’m sorry.” Dr Lewis said. 

* * *

(March 1989)

Maisie came into the world. 

Elaine cried. Malcolm cried. He’d hoped against hope that the doctor was wrong. That Maisie had a heartbeat. But there was no piercing cry. Only a deafening silence. The doctor had been right. 

They had a very nice and understanding midwife. Malcolm was offered to cut the umbilical cord. And he did. 

Elaine didn’t want to see Maisie. She was crying in the next room.

Malcolm wanted to. He wanted to meet his daughter. The midwife left with her, and was gone for what felt like forever but was closer to ten minutes and then Malcolm was handed a baby swaddled in a pink blanket by the midwife.

Seven pounds. Ten ounces. 

“Yer ma wee bairn. Ma lassie. Maisie.” Malcolm whispered to her, knowing that she couldn’t hear the words. That she never would. 

She looked just like she was sleeping. But her chest wasn’t rising or falling. 

Malcolm took in her features and gently stroked her dark hair with his thumb. He would never see whether she had his blue-grey eyes or Elaine’s green eyes. He just wanted to remember the feel of her hair and skin. The shape of her face. Her hair, her nose, her fingernails. Every little detail. He wanted it all seared into his memory. He never wanted to forget what she looked like.

“Malcolm.” 

Malcolm turned around to see his mother, Mhairi Tucker. “Mam.” He said, tears in his eyes, tracking down his cheeks. 

“A’m here.” Mhairi said. “Elaine?” 

“Elaine’s Mam’s wi her.” 

Mhairi nodded. “Aye.”

“Maisie. She’s _deid_, Mam.” Malcolm sat down and put Maisie back in the cot. He put his head in his hands and broke down in tears, sobbing loudly. 

Mhairi knelt down and put her arms around her youngest, and now only, son. It broke her to see him like this. 

“Where’s Da?” Malcolm asked, trying to sound normal. 

“Yer Da’s outside.” Mhairi said. 

Malcolm nodded. “He shouldn’t...”

“Malcolm. It’s fine tae cry. Ye just had a-“

“I’m a _man_.” 

“Man or nae, ye shuidnae hold it in.” Mhairi wiped her own tears away. She pulled a tissue from her coat pocket and wiped Malcolm’s tears from his cheeks. “Yer wean.”

“Maisie.” 

Mhairi nodded. “She’s deid. Ye shuid be cryin. It’s fine. It’s fine.” 

Another pained sob wracked through Malcolm’s body. 

Mhairi wrapped her arms around him and pulled him close, rocking him from side to side and stroking his hair. 

Malcolm didn’t hold her back. He couldn’t bring himself to. He just cried. 

“Is he...?” Malcolm’s father, James. 

“He’s hurting.” Mhairi said. “We all are. But Maisie was his daughter. Malcolm and Elaine will feel this worse than us.” 

“Lad.” James put his hand on Malcolm’s head. “It’s okay. But you have to be strong. For Elaine.” 

It took all his strength, but Malcolm pulled his head up from his mother’s shoulder and nodded. 

“Can I... hold her?” Mhairi asked. 

Malcolm tried to speak, but the lump in his throat wouldn’t let him, so he just nodded again. 

Carefully, Mhairi picked Maisie up from the cot. “She’s beautiful, Malcolm. She has your hair. And your chin.” 

“She has Elaine’s nose.” James observed. “I’m really sorry-“

Malcolm swallowed hard, but the lump wouldn’t go away. Trying not to cry only made the tears flow more. “I... I want her.” He croaked. 

Mhairi nodded and handed Maisie carefully to Malcolm. 

“I love you.” Malcolm whispered to Maisie. “I love you.” 

* * *

(March 1989)

“Elaine. We have to talk about this.” Malcolm said. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Elaine said emotionlessly. 

“We’re cremating our daughter.” Malcolm said. “We outlived her-“

“We outlived her because she _never lived_, Malcolm.” 

Malcolm sighed and adjusted his black tie. “I know.” 

“I don’t want to think about it.” 

“I know.” Malcolm put his arm around Elaine and kissed her head. 

“It’s not fair. We should be tired from nappy changes and night feeding. Not from crying ourselves to sleep at night.” Elaine wiped her eyes. 

“Come on.” Malcolm said quietly. 

“Malcolm. I don’t know what’s happening anymore.”

“I’ve planned a lovely service for Maisie-“

“_Don’t_ say her name.” Elaine said. It was more of a demand.

“For... _her_.” Malcolm compromised. “I just don’t know what kind of a fucking god would let this shit happen.” 

“A terrible one.” Elaine sniffled.

“A non-existent one.” Malcolm said. 

“Malcolm, you can’t-“

“What kind of a fucking god would fucking let a kid die before she’s even fucking born?!” Malcolm shouted. His voice was full of pain and hurt and anguish. “No god! God isn’t fucking real! It’s just a fucking story!” He punched the hearse. 

“Malcolm!” Elaine hissed.

“Oh no. No no no no...” Malcolm looked inside the hearse at the tiny coffin. “Ma wee lassie. Yer Da’s so sorry.” Tears formed in Malcolm’s eyes and he was careful to wipe them away. “A didnae mean tae scare ye.” 

The funeral director approached them “Mr and Mrs Tucker.” He said. “I’m so sorry-“

“Everyone says that.” Malcolm said. 

“It was good of you to do this, Mr O’Brien.” Elaine said. 

“It was a horrible thing to happen to you.” The funeral director said. “And doing it free was the least I could do.” He turned to Malcolm. “Mr Tucker. Are you ready?” 

“No.” Malcolm admitted. “I could never be ready.”

The funeral director nodded sympathetically. “No parent ever is.” 

Malcolm took a deep breath and picked up Maisie’s little white coffin from the back of the hearse, trying his hardest not to break down in tears. And with Elaine following, Malcolm carried the coffin into the crematorium. 

* * *

(March 1989)

“Oh Malcolm, we heard what had happened.” Peter said. Peter was the editor at the paper that Malcolm and Elaine both worked at. 

“Yep.” Malcolm couldn’t bring himself to say anything else.

“How’s Elaine holding up?” Peter asked. 

“She wants to come back to work.” Malcolm answered. “She doesn’t like being alone in an empty house.” 

“Oh it must be so horrible for her.” Peter said. 

Malcolm gritted his teeth. _Her_ death had happened to him too. “Yes.”

“Can you give her this, it’s from all of us.” Peter handed Malcolm an envelope from his desk. 

Malcolm took the card. “Sure.”

“Since you’re Scottish, can you cover the death of that Scottish MP?” Peter asked. 

“Bob McTaggart?” Malcolm asked. 

Peter snapped his fingers. “Yep. Him. There’s gonna be a by-election, so cover that too. Go on.” 

Malcolm left Peter’s office disillusioned. His daughter had just died and he’d been told to cover the death of a Labour politician. He hadn’t even been asked how he was feeling. 

He opened the envelope to see a white card with a bird on it reading; With Deepest Sympathies. He opened it to see it was addressed to Elaine and Elaine only. He aggressively forced it into the nearest bin with a huff and went to his desk. 

* * *

(April 1989)

Elaine was sitting on the sofa looking at picture of an ultrasound. An ultrasound of her baby. 

Malcolm walked in through the front door and dumped his keys in the bowl by the front door. It all felt wrong. He should have been hearing the shrill cry of a baby. Nursery rhymes. Family members and friends round to see them. 

Instead there was an eerie silence. 

Malcolm walked up the stairs to what would have been-_should have been_-his daughter’s room. He opened the door and the unused nappies, baby grows and the unused cot... he couldn’t bear it. He walked in and sat down on the floor against the cot. He pulled his knees to his chest and held in his tears.

He was supposed to be strong. 

Malcolm picked up one of what would-_should_-have been his daughter’s stuffed toys. A rabbit. He felt the urge to cry but he couldn’t. He had to be strong. He _was_ strong. He had to be strong for Elaine. 

* * *

(August 1989)

“Malc.” Elaine gently shook his shoulder. “We should be going to work now.” 

Malcolm was underneath the covers of their shared bed with the sheets pulled over his head. “I’m going to call in sick today.” He said. 

“What’s wrong? Are you okay?” Elaine asked fearfully. She’d just lost her daughter. She wasn’t prepared to lose her husband too.

“I just feel sick.” Malcolm said. “Must be something that I ate.” 

“But you haven’t been eating.” Elaine said. 

“I’m fine. But I’m not fine. I’m calling in sick.” Malcolm said, peeling himself from the covers and sitting up at the side of the bed.

“Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure.” Malcolm said. The realisation that his daughter was dead had hit him. That he’d carried her coffin to have her burned. 

He felt a weird, but horribly familiar feeling in his stomach and bolted from the room into the bathroom. 

Elaine followed until she heard retching and she realised that yes, Malcolm was sick. Once she heard the toilet flushing, she ventured into the bathroom after him. 

“Malc.” She said soothingly. She started rubbing circles on his back. 

“Something I ate.” Malcolm turned the tap on and splashed water on his face. 

“Your eyes are red.” 

“That’d be the acid in my vomit burning through my oesophagus.” Malcolm said, trying his best to sound brave. He turned to her. “Go to work. Someone has to earn money to pay the mortgage.” 

“If you’re sure.” Elaine pecked Malcolm on the cheek. 

“I’ll be fine.” Malcolm said. “And if I’m not, I know the number for an ambulance.” 

He put on a brave smile, not wanting her to know that he couldn’t be strong for her. 

* * *

(December 1989)

“Malcolm.” Elaine said. “Look. I have something to tell you.” 

“What?” Malcolm asked, putting the volume down ton the telly. 

“I...” Elaine handed Malcolm something and sat down on the sofa next to him

Malcolm took it and realised it was a pregnancy test. That came up positive. “You’re pregnant?” 

Elaine shook her head. “Not anymore.” 

“You mean-?”

“I wanted to wait until it was safe, but... I’m having a miscarriage.” Elaine put her head in her hands and started crying. 

Malcolm put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. This Christmas was supposed to be _her_ first Christmas. It was already sad enough. But now Elaine was miscarrying... well that only made it much worse for them. 

* * *

(February 1990)

“I’m not going to Glasgow to avoid you.” Malcolm said. 

He and Elaine were standing on the platform at Euston station. Malcolm had a suitcase next to him. 

“It sure feels like you are.” Elaine said. “You never talk to me anymore.

“I’m not. I promise.” Malcolm took Elaine’s hand in his. “I love you. Why would I avoid you?” 

“I can think of a _few_ reasons.” Elaine said. With her free hand, she ran it across her flat belly. 

“It has nothing to do with what happened.” A barefaced lie. “Elaine. I _do_ love you. And I honestly don’t give two fucks if your family vote Tory. Although I’d prefer it if Neil Kinnock were PM.” 

“Malcolm, you don’t have to do this.” Elaine said. 

“I have to. But you could come with me.” Malcolm offered. 

“Why do you have to-“

“Because my family lives in Scotland, Elaine.” Malcolm said. “I’m Scottish. I’m from Glasgow. You can’t expect me to _never_ go back there.” 

“Your timing’s a little suspect.” Elaine said. 

“I’m not going to get away from you.” Malcolm asserted. He leaned in to kiss her, but she turned away. 

“Have a good time.” Elaine said emotionlessly. 

“Yeah.” Malcolm picked up his luggage and boarded the train, leaving Elaine behind. 

* * *

(June 1995)

Malcolm kissed Elaine on the lips. They were standing on Jamie and his wife Linda’s doorstep. Malcolm rang the doorbell. 

Jamie answered. “Ah, Malc, good tae see ye.” 

“Jamie.” Malcolm greeted. 

“Hello, Jamie.” Elaine greeted. 

“Good to see you too, Elaine.” Jamie said. “How’ve you two been?” 

“We’re doing good, actually.” Elaine said. 

Malcolm nodded. He didn’t want it escaping that he and Elaine had been attending counselling. 

Linda appeared behind Jamie. “Hey, Elaine, Malcolm.”

“Hey, Linda. 

“Linda.” 

“Come in.” Jamie stepped aside as Malcolm and Elaine stepped inside. “Living room, yeah.” He led Malcolm to the living room.

Elaine stayed behind in the hall.

“You okay?” Linda asked. 

Elaine shook her head. “Not really.” 

Malcolm poked his head around the living room door. “El.”

“What’s going on?” Jamie asked. 

“We’re not doing as okay as we said.” Elaine said.

“El, you don’t have to tell them.” Malcolm said.

“I found a lump.” Elaine said. “Had it tested. It’s cancer.”

Jamie appeared in the doorway. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. Elaine.”

Malcolm stepped forward and put his arm around Elaine. 

“Malc and I, we’ve been through worse.” Elaine said. “I’m sure we’ll survive.”

“It’s a life threatening disease.” Linda said. 

“I know. I just don’t want to dwell on it.” Elaine said. “So...” she glanced down and looked at Malcolm. “So how are you guys doing?”

“We’re doing, erm...” 

“We’ve put an application in to adopt a kid.” Linda said. “We’re going to be parents.” 

“That’s good.” Malcolm said smiling halfheartedly. “Really happy for ye, mate.” 

“Good luck.” Elaine added. 

* * *

(March 1997)

“I’ve been headhunted.” Malcolm said. “Tony Blair. He wants me to help on his campaign.” 

“Oh, really?” Jamie asked. 

“Aye. I’m going to hand in my notice now.” Malcolm said. 

“Does Elaine know about this?”

“Elaine knows. She wants me to go for it.” 

“You’re, what, you’re going to be a fucking _politician_ now, right?” Jamie laughed and shook his head. “No offence, mate, I just can’t see _you_ as a politician.” 

“That’s because I’m _not_ going to be a politician.” Malcolm said. “I’m not fucking standing as an MP.” 

“Then what-“

“Media advisor.”

“Work your way up from there?” Jamie asked. “If he becomes PM-“

“Which he will.” Malcolm said.

“You’re going to work your way up to becoming his own personal aide?” 

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “You laugh _now_.” 

“Okay. Okay. So how’s Elaine?” Jamie asked. 

“She’s... good days and bad days.” Malcolm said with a sigh. “Mostly bad days now. It just... it hurts me to see her like that.”

“I’m really sorry, mate.” Jamie said. 

“I know you are. You say it all the fucking time.” Malcolm said.

“That.” Jamie nodded at Malcolm’s resignation letter. “I’m never going to see you again, am I?” 

“Er, probably not, no.” Malcolm admitted. 

“In that case, it’s been good working with ye, Malc.” Jamie said. “Take care, mate.” 

“Yeah. You too.” Malcolm said. He turned away from Jamie and walked over to the editor’s office and knocked the door. 

* * *

(September 1998)

Malcolm sighed. He didn’t expect to be sat in a church. And though he was surrounded by his and Elaine’s friends and family, he felt completely isolated. Alone. 

He looked down at the ring on his finger and turned it. He’d loved Elaine with all his heart and it hurt that she wasn’t here anymore. He’d known she was going to die. He’d been expecting it. But what he hadn’t expected was how crushing her death would be to him. 

All the days were running into each other now. He couldn’t tell what day it was. It could have been a Tuesday or a Sunday. He didn’t care either. He’d just been operating on autopilot. 

He stood up. Said a speech about Elaine. He didn’t cry. His voice didn’t break. But he was broken inside and it was obvious. 

The one person who shared his grief at _her_ death, he’d just lost. He’d lost his best friend. The love of his life. His support system. 

At the cemetery, he didn’t listen to anything anyone was saying. He was so intensely focused on his own grief. From the jar of dirt, he took a handful and sprinkled it on Elaine’s coffin. 

At the post-funeral gathering, everyone was talking about Elaine. Malcolm stayed away from everyone else and went to the alcohol. He took a bottle of whiskey and headed to the Men’s, locked himself in and drank the whole bottle as he sobbed. Nobody could see his weakness. Men didn’t cry. 

* * *

(November 1998)

Malcolm had asked for St Andrew’s Day off in order to go down to Glasgow and spend time with his family, which is what he’d done. Only he found himself in a pub, talking to an unknown English woman who was roughly his own age. 

Malcolm had brought her back to his hotel room. Sure a Travelodge wasn’t the best place for a quick shag, but that’s what ended up happening. 

Come the morning, Malcolm woke up with a slight headache and completely naked in bed with that woman next to him. She also wasn’t wearing anything. It didn’t take too long for him to put two and two together, that they’d had unsafe sex. 

“It’s probably best we just keep this to ourselves.” The woman said as she put her bra on. 

“Why?” Malcolm asked. 

“Your job.” The woman said. “Your wife.” She nodded at Malcolm’s wedding ring. 

“My wife died earlier this year.” Malcolm said. “Breast cancer. Suppose I’m single now.”

“I’m so sorry.” The woman said. “I’m married though. So I suppose I had an affair.” 

“Why’d you sleep with me, then?” Malcolm asked. 

“I had an argument with my husband.” The woman said. “Our oldest son, Will, he’s fifteen now. He wants to move out next year.” 

“Empty nest syndrome?” Malcolm asked. 

“No, we have a... a few kids.” The woman said. “Twelve. Eight. My six year old, Peter, he’s a bit over sensitive to arguments.“ 

Malcolm sighed. “I... have a nine year old.” Maisie would have been nine years old. 

“It’s hard with kids, isn’t it.” 

“Erm. Yeah.” Malcolm agreed, hoping she wouldn’t say anything else about kids. 

“Now I have to think of a reason why I was out all night.” The woman said. She put her jeans on. “My husband. My children-“

“Look, you didn’t have an affair, right.” Malcolm pulled his fleece on. “What you did was check into a Travelodge alone because you wanted to give your husband space after the argument. Trust me, I’m an expert in spin.” 

“I thought you were an expert in broadcast journalism.”

Malcolm chuckled nervously. “I’m a media advisor for the government. I did work in broadcast journalism for a while. But mostly print.” 

The woman frowned. “You’re not going to make me a statement, are you?” She asked as she put her socks on. 

“I’ve already prepared you a statement.” Malcolm said. “You came here to give your husband space after an argument. If he asks, you say you slept alone.” He slipped his trainers on. “You don’t say you shagged some Scottish bloke you don’t know. And don’t do it again. I could have been a mad axe murderer for all you knew. The next time you might not be so lucky.”

* * *

(February 2000)

Malcolm was at his cubicle working hard. Outside the room, he could hear Alastair Campbell on the phone to someone, probably Peter Mandelson. Shouting about North Wales. 

Malcolm stood up from his desk. “I’m going for a walk.” He said. He walked out of the door and came face to face with Alastair Campbell. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Alastair asked. 

“For a walk.” Malcolm said. 

“No you don’t. Get the fuck back to your desk and do your job.” Alastair said. “No not you.” He said down the phone. “_You_ I want to stop with the fucking cock ups. And fire that stupid advisor of yours-he’s a fucking liability-“

Malcolm opened the door and walked back to his cubicle. He sat down in his office chair and opened the drawer of his desk. A bottle of whiskey. He took it out, opened the top and took a drink right from the bottle. 

Malcolm’s mobile phone started ringing, so he picked it up from his desk and answered it. “Hello, wino Richard Madeley speaking.” 

“_Malcolm_?” A familiar female voice said down the receiver. 

“Mam.” Malcolm cleared his throat and screwed the cap back on his whiskey.

“_I’ve been trying to get hold of you all morning_.” 

“Something’s wrong.” Malcolm said. 

“_It’s your father_.” Mhairi said. “_He’s dead_.”

Malcolm froze and felt all the blood drain from his face. “You’re joking.” He said. “Please tell me you’re joking.” 

“_He had a heart attack last night_.” Mhairi said. “_Died in his sleep. You need to get down to Glasgow as soon as you can._” 

Malcolm hung up the phone and put it in his jacket pocket, stood up from his desk, kept his whiskey back in the drawer and ran out of the offices.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Alastair asked. 

“I’ve had a phone call, Alastair.” Malcolm said. “Family emergency. I have to go to Glasgow now. My dad’s just died.” 

Alastair softened. “I’ll talk to the PM.” He said. He put the phone back to his ear. “No not about you-well yes about you too, but one of my staffers has just had some bad news although it’s not as bad as the news you’re going to have-“

Malcolm bolted down the stairs as fast as he could and straight out of Number 10 Downing Street. 

* * *

(June 2000)

Malcolm was sitting in his cubicle at Number 10. Everyone else was trying to cover up for Tony Blair’s terrible reception at the Women’s Institute, but he was swivelling around on his office chair, not really doing anything. 

Alastair slammed his hands on Malcolm’s desk. “Tucker, come on.” 

“Everyone else seems to have it covered.” Malcolm said. His work phone started ringing so he picked the receiver up and put it down. “There’s nothing for me to do. Think I’ll go down to the pub for a drink-“

“The Millennium Bridge is opening in two days. Deflect attention from Tony and onto that.” Alastair said. 

“How does that, like, affect people in Scotland and Wales and Northern Ireland and just generally not in London?” Malcolm asked. His work phone started ringing again. so he picked up the receiver and put it down again.

“It doesn’t, but it puts a more positive story out there.” Alastair said. “Your job is to make the PM and the government look good.”

“How is a bridge opening going to make them look good?” Malcolm asked. 

“It just does.” Alastair said. “Now do it.” 

Malcolm’s work phone started ringing again. 

Alastair pointed to the phone. “And answer that phone.” 

Malcolm picked up the phone. “You’ve reached the office of Richard and Judy, Judy Finnigan speaking.” 

“_Malcolm_?” 

Malcolm recognised the voice as being that of his younger sister. “Moira. How did you get this number?” He asked. 

“_Ask Jeeves_.” Moira replied. “_Look, there’s a situation here in Scotland_.” 

“Scotland didn’t make it into the Euros?” Malcolm asked sarcastically. 

“_Mam’s died.”_

Malcolm sat upright in his chair. “What?” 

“_She’s died, Malc._”

“You’re fucking joking.” 

“_I’m not. I just found her body._” 

Malcolm ran a hand over his head. “Fuck.” He took a deep breath, contemplating his next move. He put his hand over the receiver and moved it away from his face. “ALASTAIR!” He screamed. 

“What the fuck is it _now_, Malcolm?” Alastair asked as he walked over to Malcolm’s desk. 

“My sister’s on the phone.” Malcolm said. “My Mam’s just died.” 

“Not the dead parent excuse again. Last time you were gone for a fortnight-“

“Because it takes some time to have a funeral, Alastair.” Malcolm said. “Fire me now, but I am going to Glasgow to be with my sister.” 

Alastair sighed. “Alright. Go. Your job will be waiting for you on your return.” 

Malcolm nodded and brought the phone up to his ear. “I’ll be on the next train down.” He said. 

“_See you soon_.” Moira said. 

Malcolm hung up and grabbed his jacket. 

* * *

(August 2000)

Malcolm opened his front door to Jamie, who could instantly tell something was wrong. 

“I was just down in London and thought I’d come and see ye.” Jamie said with a frown. “You’re looking a bit...” 

“I’m not drunk” Malcolm insisted. His behaviour said otherwise. 

“See... I think ye are.” Jamie said. “You’re drunk. Drunk as a skunk. Mad wi it. You need to stop this.” 

“Stop what? I’m fine. I’m just... I’m fucking fine, mate.” 

Jamie pushed past Malcolm. “Yer _not_ fine. Your wife died. Your parents died. Ye _aren’t_ coping.”

He froze when he saw a suspicious looking white powdery substance split up into lines on Malcolm’s dining table. Also suspicious looking items were a razor blade and a rolled up five pound note.

“Is that what I think it is?” Jamie asked emotionlessly, pointing at the substance. 

Malcolm rubbed his nose. “What?”

“Ye’ve taken cocaine.” Jamie said. He narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Yer nose is runny.”

Malcolm rubbed his nose again. “I... have a cold.”

Jamie noticed Malcolm’s twitching muscles. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m fine.” 

“I didn’t ask you if you were fine.” 

“I’m fucking fine!” Malcolm shouted. 

“Bollocks!” Jamie shouted back. “Yer in pain! Yer drinking to cope! Noo yer on cocaine! The Class A fucking shite!”

“I’m not on any fucking drugs, Jamie!” Malcolm roared. “I’m not on fucking drugs. My wife fucking died but you know what? I’m fucking fine, mate! I’ve got a fucking good job, right, working for fucking Tony Blair. I’m in the fucking government now. I’m in the loop, mate-I _am_ the fucking loop!”

“Malc-“

“No.” Malcolm took a step back from Jamie. No you’re just... you’re trying to get me fired.” 

“I’m not-“

“You want to replace me. You’re fucking Satan or something.” Malcolm rubbed his nose again and looked down to see blood. “You’re trying to fucking kill me or something, yeah? Get me fired and kill me so you can usurp my fucking job.” 

Jamie said nothing. He was too in shock at the erratic behaviour of his friend. His friend who was drunk and had taken cocaine. His friend who was wearing dirty clothes and probably hadn’t washed for a few days. His friend who was tweaking out, had dilated pupils, a bloody nose and blood smeared on his cheek. 

“Get the fuck out of my house.” Malcolm said. He physically pushed Jamie backwards, knocking him over. 

“What the fuck, Malcolm Tucker?” Jamie snapped. He pulled himself from the floor. “Jesus. Yer fucking paranoid.”

“I’M FINE!” Malcolm screamed in Jamie’s face. 

Jamie swallowed the urge to scream back in Malcolm’s face. After all, Malcolm wasn’t being rational. He very much doubted at that moment that Malcolm was even there. 

“Ye need help, mate.” 

“Get out!” Malcolm shouted. He rubbed his nose again. 

Jamie nodded. “Fine.” He walked towards the front door and opened it. He turned around to see his friend before he left. “I hope ye see that you need help. Or yer job will be gone. And _I_ won’t be the one taking it.” 

Malcolm threw a beer bottle at the door, causing Jamie to duck behind the door as he closed it. 

“Jesus.” Jamie muttered. 

Malcolm looked at the powder on the table that was definitely cocaine. He took the fiver from the table and rolled it up again.

* * *

(January 2001) 

“What he hell’s he doing?” Alastair frowned. He and another advisor, Steve Fleming, were standing behind the scenes of Breakfast With Frost, having been aware of Malcolm’s increasingly erratic behaviour. That of course being the reason they were there.

“I don’t know.” Steve said. 

“He’s supposed to be fucking talking about fucking Peter Mandelson not... whatever the fuck _that_ is.” Alastair said. “I’m going to get him off.” 

“You can’t do that, this is live.” Steve said.

“I’m getting him off.” Alastair said.

“Alastair.” His PA came to his side. “I’ve just been talking to Malcolm’s PA, Sam.” 

“And?” Alastair asked. 

“And in Malcolm’s desk is a little bag of suspicious white powder.” 

“Shit.” 

“And another with brown powder.” 

“Fuck!” Alastair whispered loudly. “Steve, get him the fuck out of there.” He said to Steve.

“And that’s not all.” The PA said. 

“Fucking hell. What else?” 

“His drinking habits. He’s an alcoholic.” 

Alastair looked at Malcolm who was very publicly melting down right in front of esteemed and famous journalist David Frost. And he put his head in his hands. Mandelson’s resignation. Malcolm’s meltdown. How the _fuck_ was he going to spin _this_?

He looked back up to see that Malcolm had vomited on David Frost’s set (and David Frost) and was now taking his clothes off. 

“Fuck me. Call an ambulance.” Alastair ran out onto the set. “Excuse me, I’m sorry.” He turned to Malcolm. “Tucker, are you okay?” He asked quietly.

“A din ken.” Malcolm’s speech was slurred. “What’s... who's the you rah?” 

“Alright I’m getting you out of here.” Alastair put his arm around Malcolm and helped him up. 

“Ah, Alastair Campbell, can _you_ tell me just what is going on here?” David Frost asked.

Alastair picked up Malcolm’s microphone. “Malcolm isn’t feeling very well at the moment. I’ve seen symptoms that Malcolm is currently presenting with before and I believe that Malcolm could have contracted uh, Meningitis. We’re getting him off set and we _have_ called an ambulance.” 

“If it is Meningitis, aren’t you worried about catching it yourself?” David Frost asked. 

“Uh, no.” Alastair said. “The safety and health of my colleague comes before my own. Now if you’ll please excuse me.” He walked slowly and carefully, with Malcolm slumped over, back to behind the scenes and sat him against a wall.

“An ambulance is coming.” Steve said. “God, he doesn’t look so good.” 

“I know.” Alastair said. “He’s really hot and feverish. His breathing is shallow.”

“Nice save with Meningitis.” The PA said. 

“Well I _have_ seen it before, it’s got similar symptoms.” Alastair noticed that Malcolm’s eyes were shut. “Malcolm.” He said firmly, shaking Malcolm’s shoulder. “Malcolm!” He slapped Malcolm’s cheek. “Come on. Wake up. This isn’t funny.” 

No reply. No answer. 

“Shit.” Steve said. 

“Check on that ambulance.” Alastair said. “He’s out cold.” He put two fingers at the side of Malcolm’s neck to check his pulse. “And his heartbeat is... it’s funny. It’s weak.” He said. “I don’t know what the _hell_ he was thinking, but he might not survive this.” He turned to Steve. “Get out there.”

“What do _I_ say?” Steve asked. 

“Anything. Say something about Malcolm being unwell but the main story here is Peter Mandelson’s resignation from the cabinet. And whatever you say, don’t say that one of Tony Blair’s media guys is a junkie or I’ll fire you on the spot and ensure that you never fucking work again.” 

* * *

(February 2001)

Alastair sat down on Malcolm’s hospital bed. “So. It’s been ten days since you melted down in front of David fucking Frost. You spent a week in a coma. You were lucky to survive that. Mixing cocaine and heroin _and_ alcohol.” 

“I’ve lost my job, haven’t I?” Malcolm asked. 

“No.” Alastair said. “You haven’t.” 

“I haven’t?” 

“Because luckily for you, I am _very_ fucking good at spin.” Alastair said. “See what happened to you, you came down with a pretty fucking bad case of Meningitis. That’s why you acted so fucking confused on live telly. That’s why you fucking vomited on David Frost and he had to get a Meningitis jab. That’s why you took your clothes off like a fucking male stripper at a hen do. And that’s why you had a fucking seizure, had your stomach pumped and were put in a fucking medically induced fucking coma.” 

“Is that it?” Malcolm asked. “Does Tony know?” 

Alastair scratched the bridge of his nose. “No. Tony doesn’t fucking now. The only people who know right now are you, me, Steve Fleming, our aides and your friend, that journalist Jamie MacDonald.” 

“Steve Fleming?” Malcolm asked. “Steve Fleming fucking knows?”

“Fucking _yes_ Steve Fleming.” Alastair said. “He was there when you melted down. Of _course_ he knows.” 

Malcolm groaned. “What the fuck happens now then?” 

“You,” Alastair poked Malcolm in the chest, “get sober.” He said. “You’ve bypassed the whole withdrawal and detox thing by being in a fucking coma. Do what I did. Get yourself some fucking help so that this,” he poked at Malcolm’s nasogastric feeding tube, “doesn’t happen again.” He stood up. 

Malcolm adjusted his position in bed. “Alastair.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Are you going to tell the PM?” Malcolm asked. 

“I think this is something for _you_ to tell him.” Alastair said. “But only when you’re fully sober. You have more chance of keeping your job then.” 

* * *

(September 2001) 

“Jesus fucking _Christ_!” Alastair shouted. “I said to fucking _bury_ bad news! All the press have been talking about for ages is the fucking Twin Towers! Why didn’t you bury this fucking news _then_?!”

“We didn’t have this news then.” One of the higher level media advisors said. 

“Of course you fucking did!” Alastair paced the floor slightly. “You had these fucking crime figures and you fucking fucked up!”

“What do you want _me_ to do about it?” The advisor asked. 

“Fucking _nothing_. You’re completely fucking useless, like a chocolate fucking fireguard.” Alastair growled. “Why the fuck didn’t you just do as you were told?”

“Because sixty-seven Brits died in the Twin Towers attacks-“

“Fucking _and_?” Alastair shook his head in incredulity. “Do you want me to give you a fucking medal for knowing that information? Or how about I go to the Queen and get you a goddamn knighthood?” 

Malcolm peered over his cubicle to see the advisor getting the bollocking of his life from Alastair Campbell. Malcolm noted the fury that burned in Alastair’s eyes that frightened even him. 

Alastair leaned forwards. “You are a fucking _incompetent_ _twat_! And I _will_ be having words with the PM about you later.” 

Malcolm ducked down, immensely grateful that he had leaked the story about the budget overspend on that day. He’d done his job and just as Alastair Campbell had asked him to. This unfortunate fuck had not. 

“WILSON!” Alastair screamed. 

“Yes?” Wilson said meekly. 

“The PM wants you gone.” Alastair said. 

“But you didn’t even talk to-“

“I talked to the PM, he sent me an SMS. We both mutually discussed your firing. So. Get lost.” Alastair said.

Malcolm began to type at his computer when Alastair appeared at the side of his cubicle. 

“Tucker. It’s your lucky day you sobered up junkie son of a bitch. How would you like to be a senior press officer to the Prime Minister Of Great Britain and Northern Ireland?” 

“Is this a joke?” Malcolm asked. “You’re not going to sack me like you did to Alan?” 

“That’s a good man.” Alastair clapped Malcolm on the shoulder. “You start right now. Get to it.” 

“But-I-what-?” Malcolm babbled.

“Get on with it!” Alastair said impatiently. 

“Get on with what?” Malcolm asked. 

“Something!” Alastair walked away, leaving Malcolm to wonder what the hell had just happened.

* * *

(August 2003) 

“So I’m terminated, just like that?” Alastair said. 

He was sitting at his desk in his office at Number 10 with Malcolm looking at him all hard. 

“Yeah. Just like that.” Malcolm said. “Look, Alastair, a man died-“

“I fucking _know_ a man died, don’t I? I fucking gave evidence at the inquiry.” 

“So don’t you think it’s better to resign now?” Malcolm shrugged. “Rather than have the press hound you out later?” 

“I _am_ the fucking press, Malcolm Tucker and I am your fucking _boss_.” Alastair said. 

“Erm... no, actually, you aren’t. Malcolm said. 

“What?” 

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, you see Tony, well he got your letter of resignation earlier.” 

Alastair’s eyes widened as he realised what was being said to him. “What.”

“Yeah. I read it too. You know, while I was writing it.” Malcolm shrugged. “It was very well written. Brought tears to my fucking eyes and I had a fucking lump in my throat.” 

“You fucking-“

“Ah. No. You’re a _civilian_ now, remember.” 

“You don’t have what it takes to do my job, Tucker.” Alastair slammed his ID badge on the table. “This job will fucking _kill_ you. You will have no time for your fucking kids or fucking your wife.” 

“Good thing I don’t have kids or a wife and the job’s not going to me, then isn’t it?” Malcolm said. The words stung to say. But it was true to an extent. He didn’t have any kids, his daughter was dead. He didn’t have a wife, she was dead too. 

“Who’s the job going to then?” Alastair asked. 

Malcolm scoffed. “Fucking Steve Fleming the fucking drip.” 

“Fuck him.” Alastair said. “And fuck you too, Malcolm Tucker, for making me do this, after all I’ve done for you” 

“You’re lucky you’re not in more trouble with your Dodgy Dossier, Alastair.” Malcolm said. “You’ve got blood on your hands already and I can only say that it’s going to get a lot worse.” 

“Like you’re innocent in all of this too.” Alastair said. “I’m not the one who got drunk and fucking high on fucking drugs and melted down on fucking David Frost’s show.” 

“You want to know what fucking happened there, Alastair?” Malcolm asked challengingly. “You know I was married and my wife’s fucking dead. You know my parents are fucking dead. But you know what else? You know what I _haven’t_ told you? I had a daughter-_had_. She’s dead too. That’s all fucking true, you can check with my old editor, Peter White.” 

“Of the-“

“Yep. And it’s not like _you’re_ innocent either in getting drunk and having _very_ public meltdowns yourself.” 

Alastair stopped and ran a hand through his hair. 

“This _stays_ with us.” Malcolm said, wiping his eye. He still didn’t like to think about it-it was raw and painful. “Or I tell everyone about that time you went in fucking _blackface_ for Gordon Brown’s Halloween party.” 

Alastair nodded. “Course.” 

“Now get out of here and publicly say you’re resigning.” Malcolm said. 

* * *

(September 2003)

“Malcolm. Can I talk to you?” Tony Blair asked Malcolm into his office at Number 10. 

“Er, sure, yeah.” Malcolm said. 

“I know you wrote Steve Fleming’s letter of resignation.” Tony said. 

“Ah. Was it _that_ obvious.” Malcolm asked.

“Let’s just say that I’m getting to recognise your style.” Tony said. “Anyway, my point is, with Steve Fleming gone, I’ll have gone through two Communications Directors in less than a month.” 

“Let me guess-as the next most senior person along this department’s food chain, you want me to take the job, yeah?” Malcolm asked. 

“Well, obviously I’ll have to vet you first.” Tony said. 

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Malcolm said. “I’ve been sober for two and a half years now.” 

“Sober?” Tony asked. “Sober from what?” 

Malcolm cleared his throat, wondering how he would tell the Prime Minister what he needed to know. “Erm... alcohol. Sleeping pills. And Class A drugs.” 

“Jesus Christ.” Tony growled and kicked his desk. 

“Careful you don’t go to hell for saying that.” Malcolm said. 

“This _isn’t_ funny, Malcolm.” Tony said sounding deathly serious. 

“Alastair Campbell covered it up.” Malcolm said

“It’ll come out, Malcolm.” Tony said. “I can’t believe I have a senior aide who’s taken Class A drugs! Next you’ll be telling me that your Meningitis wasn’t...” he trailed off when he saw Malcolm’s sheepish look. “You’re fucking joking, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re joking.” 

“There was never any Meningitis-I was in a coma because I took an overdose.” 

Tony sighed loudly. “An overdose of _what_?”

“Cocaine. And heroin.” 

“What? _Together_?”

Malcolm nodded. “With sleeping pills. And I’d had a bit too much to drink that day too.” 

Tony grunted and bashed his head into the wall. “How? Why? Malcolm, why?” He turned to face Malcolm again. “Look, how do I know that if I give you this job, that you’re not going to crack and break again under the pressure?” He asked.

“You trusted _Alastair_.” Malcolm pointed out. 

“You _aren’t_ Alastair.” Tony said. 

“You’re damn right I’m not Alastair. I’m fucking _better_ than Alastair.” Malcolm said. “Because unlike him, I didn’t snap under pressure. I bent slowly over twenty years. My brother died of AIDS in the eighties. My daughter died in the eighties. My wife had a miscarriage in the eighties and then died five years ago and both of my parents died within months of each other three years ago.” Malcolm said. “It’s only me and my sister who are left and suffice to say, I wasn’t fucking coping with, you know, everyone dropping down dead around me like I’m some kind of fucking Bubonic Plague Monster.” 

Tony sighed. He knew Malcolm had been through a lot of shit, but he didn’t know quite how bad it was. If any of his kids died it would drive him crazy too. “If any of your drug or alcohol problems make it into the press, you’re out.”

“You’re giving me the job?” Malcolm asked. 

“It seems like you need to be kept busy so that you don’t think about your problems.” Tony said. “Which seem to be plenty.”

Malcolm nodded. “Any word about my daughter or my brother and I will personally hang you out to dry in the press.” 

“You can’t threaten me, I’m the Prime Minister.” 

“Tough shit.” Malcolm said. 

Tony grunted. “Don’t threaten me.” 

“So I take it my former position’s empty now.” Malcolm said.

Tony didn’t say anything. He just gave a small nod to let Malcolm know he was listening. 

“Yeah well, I have a recommendation for someone to fill that.” Malcolm said. 

* * *

(September 2006)

Malcolm knocked on Tony Blair’s office door. 

“Come in.” The voice came from the other side. 

Malcolm stopped inside looking somehow both pissed off and solemn. “You need to step aside.” He said. 

Tony chuckled awkwardly. “What?”

“You don’t have the support of the Party.” Malcolm said. 

“Yeah, I didn’t have the support of the Party when we went to Iraq, but-“

“This isn’t _just_ Iraq, Tony.” Malcolm said. “This is Iraq and the latest fucking _Israel_ bullshit.”

“It’s not my fault that Israel and Lebanon are fighting.” Tony said. 

Malcolm snorted. “Shall we count the things that _aren’t_ your fault?” He asked. “Okay. One, you didn’t publicly back a fucking ceasefire.” 

“That’s not my problem.” Tony said.

“It is _so_ your fucking problem, mate.” Malcolm said. “Two,” he began counting on his fingers, “the whole ‘war with Iraq’ thing. You know how the death toll keeps rising and people keep questioning whether there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? You know there wasn’t. Alastair knows there wasn’t and I know there fucking wasn’t. You’re unpopular in the eyes of the public.” 

“We had to go to war with Iraq.” Tony protested.

“Why?” Malcolm shrugged. “Because President Bush said we have to? What the fuck are you, man, his fucking lap dog? His little fucking poodle? Tony Blair the Poodle?” 

“I’m _nobody’s_ lap dog, Malcolm.” Tony said. 

“Five-“

“What happened to three and four?” Tony asked. 

“Five!” Malcolm repeated louder. “John McDonnell wants to fucking run against you in a leadership bid. Wait, let me correct that, he asked you to fucking resign so he and others can run for fucking leader.”

“Yes, That was months ago, but-“

“Six.” Malcolm had moved onto his other hand. “You’re aware of a petition going around the Party MPs begging you to back down, aren’t you?” 

“Yes, well-“

“I know all about your little pact with Gordon Brown. You be PM first. Warm the seat a little. Then you resign and give it to old Gordy, right?” Malcolm said. 

“I don’t know where you get your information, Malcolm, but it appears to be false.” Tony folded his arms in what he hoped would be an act of defiance. 

“_BOLLOCKS_!” Malcolm shouted, causing Tony to jump backwards slightly. “Just at least set a damn timetable for your fucking resignation. And keep _me_ in the fucking loop.” 

With that, Malcolm opened the door and walked out of Tony’s office. 

* * *

(March 2007) 

Malcolm was sitting at his desk in his office. There was bad press that needed burying and ministers that needed bollocking. And yet something seemed off about today. He opened the drawer of his desk and pulled out a framed photo of him and his daughter. The only photo he had. 

She would have been eighteen today. He had to find some way to commemorate this occasion. Since Elaine wasn’t here to commemorate it with him. 

Malcolm stroked the photo with his thumb, letting himself remember all the hurt. 

Sam came into the office, carrying a cup of tea. She put it on Malcolm’s desk and noticed the photo. “Who’s that then?” 

“It’s a, uh,” Malcolm cleared his throat, “it’s a photo of me and my niece, Elspeth.” 

Sam nodded, knowing that Malcolm was holding something back since his hair was vastly different in the photo than it had been in 2002, but said nothing anyway. Malcolm would talk on his own terms as she’d found out all those years ago. “Your tea’s on the table.” 

“Thanks, Sam.” Malcolm said.

Sam nodded and walked out of the room. 

Malcolm looked at the photo once again and put the frame on his desk. He wanted to see it. He wanted to remember _her_. Especially today. 

* * *

(May 2010)

Malcolm arrived at Number 10 and headed to his office. “Hung Parliament.” He muttered, taking his jacket off. “Fuck this shit.” 

He looked at the stack of newspapers waiting for him and chose instead to log onto his computer and then picked up the top paper on the pile. The Guardian.

Gordon Brown knocked on the door and walked in. “Malcolm.” 

“Gordon. Come in.” Malcolm said, throwing the paper on his desk. “What the fuck do you want?” 

“Well I’ve come to warn you that I’m not going to talk with the Liberal Democrats anymore.” Gordon said. 

“You mean...?” 

Gordon nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid so. Pack your things. David Cameron is going to be moving into Downing Street.” 

“Fuck. Fuck me. Fuck this. Fuck it all what the fuck?” Malcolm said. 

“Yes.” 

“After all I’ve fucking done to keep this Party in power?” Malcolm snapped. 

“You didn’t keep us in power-“

“You were the twat who called that fucking lady a bigot!” Malcolm said. 

“Well she _was_ a bigot and it’s your job to spin that.” Gordon said. 

“Oh.” Malcolm folded his arms. “Since you know so much about my fucking job, why don’t _you_ tell _me_, how the fuck do I it spin it?” 

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Malcolm said. “Fucking exactly! Jesus fucking Christ. What level of reality are you fucking operating on, man? You said it on a fucking microphone! Everyone and their fucking dog heard it! Even fucking tardigrades heard it!”

“You’re shit at your job, Malcolm.” Gordon said. 

“Yeah? _I’m_ shit?” Malcolm asked. “The only reason I‘m shit, Gordon, is because you‘re fucking _worse_. Now get out of my office while I still have it.” 

* * *

(January 2012) 

“Mr Tucker.” 

Malcolm did his best not to squirm in his seat. He tried to give off cool vibes, but the truth was that he really didn’t want to be giving evidence publicly in an inquiry. 

Robert Jay continued. “I’d like to ask you about your wife.” 

Malcolm leaned into the microphone. “Her name was Elaine Reid. She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1995. Unfortunately the cancer metastasised and was considered terminal and she passed in September of 1998.” 

Robert Jay nodded and looked down at a paper. “Yes. You say here that private information regarding your wife’s health was leaked to the press and you claim it can only have come from phone hacking.” 

“Yes.” Malcolm said. “Before I became a media advisor to Tony Blair and then his director of communications and strategy, I was a high profile print journalist. My jobs as a journalist and a media advisor took me all over. So I’d take my mobile phone with me to keep, you know, keep in touch with my very sick wife. It didn’t matter whether I wanted to go or not, I had to do that or we’d get no money because she couldn’t work. Sometimes she would leave messages for me, updating on her cancer treatment. Whether she’d had a good or a bad day.” 

“You say these messages were hacked.” Robert Jay said. 

“Yes.” Malcolm nodded. “I do. Because I did _not_ go public with this information. Elaine was a journalist too. She didn’t go public either. We had a close friend who was also a journalist-“

“James MacDonald, now a senior media officer for your Party.” 

“Yes.” Malcolm said. “I trust him with my life. He wouldn’t have gone public with this.” 

“You say the three of you worked for The Glasgow Herald.” Robert Jay said.

“No, only Jamie-_James_ worked for The Herald at that time.” Malcolm said.

“I see.” Robert Jay said. “This information never actually made it into the press though, did it?” 

“No.” Malcolm said. “We figured out that it was The News of the World who had this information when their editor called Alastair Campbell to tell him about it. Alastair was the one who made it go away. I didn’t know how The News of the World got hold of this information until 2005, when it was first revealed that they had been hacking phones.” 

Robert Jay turned a page. “Now. Back in 2001, you had a rather public meltdown which saw you act erratically on Breakfast With Frost and subsequently you were hospitalised and treated for alcohol and drug addictions. Though at the time it was said you had fallen ill with Meningitis.” 

Malcolm sighed. “That’s... right.” He said. 

“Can you tell me what drugs you took?” Robert Jay asked.

Malcolm leaned slightly further away from the microphone. “Cocaine, mainly. Bit of heroin on the side. But uh, that day I took cocaine and heroin and I drank. I shouldn’t have done it, but I was in a bad place mentally. Both of my parents had just died. I guess I was feeling a bit self destructive. I was rushed to the hospital and put in a medically induced coma. It didn’t affect my career though as I obviously kept my job.” 

“And you claim that a story obtained by The News of the World around the time of your promotion to director of communications came directly as a result of phone hacking.” 

“That’s right.” Malcolm said. “I noticed messages on my personal phone were missing. Private conversations between my former dealer and myself. Then suddenly, I’m plastered all over the tabloid newspapers as still having a dangerous drug addiction and they seemed to be implying that I was either close to death or dying or would run the country into the ground despite the fact that I was sober at the time and despite the fact that I also was not the Prime Minister.” 

“I see. And how did you react?” Robert Jay asked.

“I dealt with it.” Malcolm said. 

“How?”

“I rang the editors.” Malcolm explained. “With a bit of persuasion, I asked them to retract their statements and issue public apologies. Which they did. Look, it’s no secret that I had a public nervous breakdown, yeah. But I would go so far as to say that The News of the World did _nothing_ to help the situation and only caused harm, leading me to that public breakdown and subsequently demonised me for it and claimed I was some... devil person because I touched Class A drugs.” He leaned forward again. “This all happened under the watch of _Andy Coulson_, the former Director of Communications for Downing Street, ironically enough, back when _I_ had that job. And if Channel 4 Dispatches is to be believed, then he _personally_ listened to my private information. He doesn’t know the level of emotional turmoil I’ve been through over the last twenty or so years. He may _think_ he knows. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know _anything_. And the lack of respect he showed to me, as a grieving f-hus-husband and a person is nothing short of astonishing.” 

* * *

(May 2012) 

Malcolm adjusted his tie in his seat. He didn’t want to be back giving testimony to the Leveson Inquiry, but here he was again. Rather than a personal testimony like last time, this was a professional testimony. 

“Alright.” Robert Jay leafed through papers. “You joined Tony Blair’s staff in 1997, is that correct?” 

“Yes.” Malcolm said. “I came on as a media advisor for his campaign. He won the election and then, after vetting, I joined as a media advisor full time in Number 10.” 

“So how was your relationship with Mr Campbell, Mr Mandelson, and Mr Fleming?” Robert Jay asked. 

“In a word? Strained.” Malcolm admitted. “I never liked either of them and neither of them liked me. We didn’t bother socialising outside work.”

“According to Mr Campbell’s statement, you referred to them as the, well, the ‘c’ word often.” 

“Yes, that-that’s true.” Malcolm said. 

“You said in your previous testimony that when The News of the World got hold of confidential information about your wife, Mr Campbell made it-and I quote-‘go away’.” Robert Jay said.

“Ah, yes.” 

“So how did he do that if your relationship was strained?” 

“The then-Prime Minister, Tony Blair, told him to.” Malcolm said. “He said it would reflect poorly on his government if he couldn’t keep the press in control and stop them from going after his own advisors like, and I use a term the PM used, attack dogs.” 

“I see.” Robert Jay looked down at his papers. “And do you know how Mr Campbell made the story disappear?” 

“No I don’t actually. I was too much in shock at my wife’s medical details appearing in the hands of some hack editor that I didn’t ask Mr Campbell how he made the story go away, though I am told there was a meeting with Mr Rupert Murdoch and a fair amount of blackmail on both sides.” Malcolm leaned forward on the desk and tented his fingers. 

“You said that once you had been promoted to Director Of Communications, you had to stop your own personal information from leaking.” Robert Jay said. 

Malcolm put his palms down on the table. “Yes.” 

“How did you accomplish this?” 

“With great difficulty.” 

There was a silence and Malcolm picked up the cup of water from next to him and took a sip.

“I mean _specifically_, Mr Tucker.” Robert Jay said. 

“Erm... blackmail.” Malcolm said. “I’m not particularly... _proud_ of it. But blackmail.” 

“I see.” Robert Jay turned a page. “And when interacting with Rupert Murdoch or The News of the World or The Sun, would you regard that as a sort of necessary evil to get the job done?” 

“Well...” Malcolm nodded slightly. “Not really. Nobody-nobody’s really _evil_. Except Hitler. But with other newspapers, The Mirror, The Express, The Daily Mail, you kind of know where you stand. The News of the World and The Sun would only side with you or pal up to you if they know you had something they wanted. So I wouldn’t call them ‘evil’. Dangerous is more like it.”

“Did you have any dealings with Rupert Murdoch _before_ you joined Tony Blair’s press team?” Robert Jay asked. 

“Erm...”

“Because I know you worked for a few newspapers.” 

Malcolm shook his head. “No. No, not really.” 

Lord Justice Leveson spoke up. “You worked for Sky News for a brief period. Sky News is owned by Rupert Murdoch.”

“Yes it is.” Malcolm said. 

“Did you have anything to do with him there-did you meet him? Shake his hand?” 

“No I had nothing to do with him.” Malcolm said. “I didn’t go out in the field or anything. I was just a fact checker. It was such a brief period of time I worked for them really. But it would be here that I forged my relationship with uh... with former Prime Minister Tony Blair.” 

Lord Justice Leveson nodded.

“Alright,” Robert Jay said, turning a paper. “I’d like to direct your attention to paragraph nine of your statement-your _professional_ statement.” 

Malcolm put his glasses on and turned a few pages of the papers in front of him. 

“In it, you discuss the Iraq War.” Robert Jay said. “Back in March of 2003.”

“Yes.” Malcolm nodded. “Has this got anything to do with Alastair Campbell?”

“No, we’re asking about Rupert Murdoch.” Robert Jay said. 

“Ah. Gotcha.” 

“In your statement, you talk about Mr Murdoch contacting your department at Downing Street. You had been promoted to Senior Communications Officer then, is that correct?”

“Yes. I was one of them.” Malcolm said. “Steve Fleming was the other.” 

“Can you tell us anything about what Mr Murdoch said to you, your superiors or anyone else in your department?” Robert Jay asked. 

“Erm...” Malcolm took his glasses off. “Well, it was evident, definitely, that we were heading for war with Iraq. And it was also evident that nobody really liked the idea of going to war with Iraq, whether those people were regular voters out on the street or the media. However, there were a few,” he waved his hand, “_certain_ newspaper titles who were pro war with Iraq. And those all belonged to Mr Murdoch. It’s not for me to say now whether I was pro or anti war, but Tony Blair, well, he needed that support. To go to war. I don’t remember whether or not I took any of these calls. Because it was an incredibly busy time. Terrorism was rampant at that time and there were lots of calls going out to other world leaders and members of the press. Like I said, we _were_ about to go to war.” 

* * *

(May 2015) 

It was election night. The results were coming in and the seats were all going to the Tories. Or so it seemed like. 

“Well, that’s it.” Ed Miliband sighed at the telly. “The Tories have the majority. The LibDems are fucked. _We’re_ fucked.” 

“In fairness, Ed,” Malcolm said, “that picture of you eating a sandwich that got dragged up was very fucking unflattering.” 

“What happens now?” Ed asked. 

“Well. You have two options.” Malcolm put one palm out. “You could resign. Or-or,” he put the other palm out, “you could hang on in there until the press hound you the fuck out.” 

“Those aren’t very good options.” Ed said. 

“You see, I’m only the Director Of Communications and fucking Strategy. You might want to talk to the rest of your fucking advisors.” Malcolm said. “But if you want _my_ suggestion? Resignation.” 

“Wow. I feel so much better.” Ed said sarcastically. 

“Yeah well. You were the one who fucking asked my opinion. You fucking got it.” 

“If I resign, you’re going to lose your job.” Ed pointed out. 

“I think I’ll be just fucking fine.” Malcolm said. “I’ve survived fucking Cat 5 hurricanes of fucking piss and vomit and diarrhoea with tornadoes of fucking fans spraying cowshit in that. You resigning would be a fucking stroll in the park.” 

Ed pulled a face. “That’s great.” 

“Yeah. It is. And I’m going home.” Malcolm put his hands in his pockets and walked out of the room.

* * *

(September 2015) 

“Jeremy Corbyn.” Malcolm greeted, putting his hand out. 

“Malcolm Tucker. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Jeremy said, shaking Malcolm’s hand.

“Good things, yeah?” Malcolm smiled. 

“... _Things_.” Jeremy said. 

“Sounds very vague.” Malcolm said. He scratched his nose with his thumb. “Look, congratulations on being the Party’s new leader, yeah.” 

Jeremy looked in confusion at Malcolm. 

“Have I grown an extra head?” Malcolm asked. 

“You’re just more reasonable than I’ve heard of you being.” Jeremy said. 

“Yeah well, I’m a regular guy. I’ve just happened to have fallen on some hard times sometimes.” Malcolm said. “I’m going to be blunt, Jeremy. I want to keep my job.” 

“Your job?” Jeremy asked.

“Director Of Communications for the Opposition.” Malcolm said. 

“Okay.” Jeremy nodded. “Fine.” 

Malcolm’s brows knitted together. “Is that _it_?” 

“I know you’re very effective at your job.” Jeremy said. “You can have it, but only for a trial period. If I like your performance, you can stay on permanently. If I don’t, well, I’ll replace you at any time.” 

“How long’s the trial?” Malcolm asked. 

“A month?” Jeremy suggested. 

“Deal.” Malcolm said. He put his hand out once again and Jeremy shook it. 

* * *

(June 2016)

“_Let June the 23rd go down in our history as our... Independence Day_!” Nigel Farage declared on the telly. 

“Well. That’s that then.” Malcolm said. “Remain’s losing.” He tapped the screen. “Look at that. Remain 48.9. Leave 51.1. I know you’re Eurosceptic yourself, but you need to think of what you want to do next.” 

“Make a speech.” Jeremy said. 

“Good start.” Malcolm put his hand in his pocket. “What you really need to do is call them on their lies. Like their bus? You really think they’re going to give three hundred and fifty million quid a week to the NHS? Bollocks. Of course they’re not fucking going to do it. Fucks sake, they’re probably going to go on BBC Breakfast and back-pedal on their bullshit.” 

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “So I go after them on their lies that they haven’t admitted are lies yet?” 

“Give it a few hours.” Malcolm said. “Enough time for them to go on BBC Breakfast and tell fucking porkies to Charlie Stayt.”

“So I wait for them to slip up and then call them on their lies?” Jeremy asked. 

“Yeah. Me and my team will compare what they say to the Vote Leave Manifesto.” Malcolm said. “Now this is important, and I can’t stress this enough, I voted to Remain. Labour half-arsed a campaign for Remain. But we have to be seen to be supporting the will of the people, yeah?” 

Jeremy nodded. “Yes.”

Malcolm took his hand from his pocket. “So what we do now is support Brexit. That simple.” 

Jeremy frowned slightly and then relaxed. “So we say that Vote Leave lied and support Brexit anyway?” 

“Yeah.” Malcolm said. “Otherwise it’d look undemocratic on our part. And you know how much the press vilifies you.”

Jeremy nodded. “Right, it’s just-“

“Good man.” Malcolm clapped Jeremy on the shoulder. “Now go and talk to your other advisors. I’m going to carry on watching this spineless sack of worthless cum. See if he fucking trips up.” 

* * *

(September 2016)

Jeremy approached Malcolm. 

“You’re still the Labour leader, I see.” Malcolm said. 

“Yes, my second landslide victory to be leader of the Labour Party.” Jeremy said. 

“Hm, That ought to shut your dissenters up.” Malcolm took his iPhone from his pocket. 

“Look, I don’t know how to thank you for all you’ve done for me over the last year-“ Jeremy said.

“Keep me on.” Malcolm said. “I mean, it’s just a suggestion, but after you fucking _royally_ cocked up Brexit, I successfully managed to get you look favourable to the press. Well, the ones that aren’t up Theresa May’s arse.” 

“Well, a week is a long time in politics.” Jeremy said. 

“Harold Wilson.” Malcolm said as he checked his iPhone. 

“Er-yes.” Jeremy nodded. 

“Right, well.” Malcolm put his iPhone back in his pocket. “Back onto Brexit.” 

“Yes.” Jeremy said. “Back to Brexit.”

* * *

(June 2017)

“Get the telly on!” Malcolm shouted to campaign staffers. “Come on! Hurry it up!” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost fucking ten pm! The polls are closing! Exit polls! Predictions! Chop fucking chop!” He clapped. 

The telly came on and everyone gathered around it, Malcolm, Jamie and a few other staffers at the front. 

“-_we’re able to predict what has happened tonigh_t.” David Dimbleby said.

The chime of Big Ben as the clock struck ten on the telly and Malcolm could feel his heart in his throat. This would be it. Would he hang onto his job?

David Dimbleby’s voice continued. “_And what we’re saying is the Conservatives are the largest party-“_

“No!” A staffer shouted. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Jamie said. “Listen to this posh twat!” 

“-_lost their overall majority and will be short by twelve votes-_“

“What does that mean?” Someone asked. 

“It means there’s another hung Parliament.” Malcolm said. “Our second in seven years-now that’s got to be some kind of fucking record.” He chuckled. 

“Malcolm, be serious here.” Someone else said. 

“I _am_ being serious.” Malcolm said. “Have you seen the numbers projected for the Party? Sure we’re not projected to win the election. But we _are_ projected to punch Theresa May’s Party in its fucking knackers and take her majority away from her. If that isn’t cause for a fucking celebration, I don’t know what is.” He moved away from the crowd. 

“It’s probably best to wait for the results first.” Another staffer said. 

“Oh aye.” Malcolm nodded in agreement. “But if that,” he pointed at the screen, “is fucking true, mate, celebrate.” 

“We did it!” Jamie said. “We beat Theresa May! It waur her own fucking gambit to call this stupid fucking election and get a bigger majority for a fucking better Brexit deal. Now it didn’t,” he held back laughter, “it didn’t work out. She’s royally fucked up right up the fucking shitter!” 

“Exactly, Jamie, exactly.” Malcolm said. “Alright, let’s get down to business. To defeat the Huns.” 

“Or the Tories.” Jamie said. 

“Tonight, we celebrate the schadenfreude.” Malcolm said. “Because tomorrow, we fight back and make it doubly hard for that vulture faced bitch to pass legislation meant to hurt ordinary working people!” 

* * *

(March 2019)

Malcolm opened the front door to his daughter and threw his arms around her. “Maisie, darling, it’s great to see you.” 

“Hey, Dad.” Maisie held her father tightly. 

Malcolm pulled back and smiled at her boyfriend. “And it’s good to see you too, Joe.” 

“Hey, Malcolm.” 

“Come on in.” Malcolm stepped aside for his daughter and her boyfriend to come inside and closed the door after them. “What brings you here?” 

“It’s my birthday.” Maisie said. “I’m thirty today.” 

“Oh, so it is.” Malcolm said. “I can’t believe my wee girl’s thirty already!” 

“Dad!” Maisie chuckled. “I’m not your wee girl anymore!” 

“You’ll always be my wee girl.” Malcolm said. 

“Actually, Malcolm, there’s another reason we’re here.” Joe said. He took Maisie’s hand in his and squeezed it. 

Malcolm raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting married?” 

“Dad.” Maisie said. “You’re going to be a granddad.”

“What.” 

“I’m pregnant.” 

Malcolm stayed reactionless for a few seconds before bursting into a smile. “Oh, Maisie. I’m happy for you. And Joe too, of course.” He gestured to her belly. “Your wean’s going to grow up in a great family.” 

“I knew you’d be happy, Dad.” Maisie pulled Malcolm in for a hug again when there was suddenly a buzzing noise. 

That buzzing noise jolted Malcolm into the real world and he wasn’t standing in his living room with his daughter and her partner. He was lying in bed and his alarm clock was going off on his mobile phone. 

He turned it on snooze, excited for the day ahead, excited that it would bring a visit from his daughter on her thirtieth birthday. He got out of bed and rushed to get dressed, not registering the urn on his table. 

It was only after he’d brushed his teeth that he realised. It had been thirty years since Maisie was born sleeping. 

He collapsed to the ground in shock. He’d only seen her bright blue eyes earlier. But it had all been a dream. He never knew the colour of her eyes. There were so many things about her that he’d never know. She would have been thirty today. He should be celebrating. 

Instead, Malcolm reached for the urn and grabbed it, holding it tightly to his chest. He let out a few tears as well, but he’d never openly admit it. 

* * *

(August 2019)

Nicky Morgan raised an eyebrow at Malcolm “You always did have a way with words.” 

Malcolm wrapped his good arm across his chest, almost forgetting his other arm was in a sling because of a broken collarbone. “Yeah well I try my fucking best, darling.” 

Nicky turned to someone who was making coffee or tea at a table on the other side of the offices. “Doctor, where’s that coffee I asked for?” 

Malcolm’s jaw dropped slightly when he saw the person was using a cane and realised that he was blind and, despite what his wild white curly hair would say, he looked pretty young too. Definitely no older than twenty. “You’re hiring blind children to make your coffee now? That’s a new low, even for the Tories.”

“Yes, well, he’s not my assistant, he’s an _intern_.” Nicky snatched the cup from the blind kid’s hand. “He’s on that summer program for disabled Civil Service interns.” 

Malcolm narrowed his eyes. “Oh really? That makes it so much better, yes indeed!”

“No need for the sarcasm, Tucker.” Nicky said.

Tom Watson stood in between Nicky and Malcolm and put his hands up. “Can we all just not verbally eviscerate each other?” He asked. “This visit will go much smoother then.” 

“Right. Come into my office.” Nicky gestured for them to follow. “We can discuss Brexit in there.” 

While Tom and his advisor followed Nicky into her office, Malcolm stayed and observed the blind kid. “Hey. Blind kid.” 

“I have a name. It’s Dougan but everyone calls me Twelve.” He said, a Glaswegian accent coming out strongly.

“Oh finally.” Malcolm said. “Someone else who can speak properly.” 

“Speak for yourself, sweary man.” Twelve said. 

Malcolm smirked. There was something about this kid that reminded him of himself. “Malcolm Tucker. Director of communications and strategy for the Labour Party.” 

“I’ve heard about you. You were hit by a car the day after my birthday.” 

“Why’s your nickname Twelve?” Malcolm asked. 

“I’m the twelfth born.” Twelve said. 

“You’re the twelfth...” Malcolm, frowned. “How many brothers and sisters have you got?” 

“More than I’d like.” Twelve said. 

“Yes. Well, you don’t have to take it from her, you know. Making the teas and coffees.” Malcolm said. “You could, I don’t know, take it to your superior.” 

“She _is_ my superior.” Twelve said. 

“She is _not_.” Malcolm said firmly. “The head of Government Communications is your boss. And the head of Civil Service is your boss’s boss.” 

“Tucker!” Tom called out from Nicky’s office.

“Think about that, yeah?” Malcolm followed everyone else into Nicky’s office. 

* * *

(August 2019)

“Uncle Malc, this letter came for you earlier.” 

“Ah thanks, Ellie.” Malcolm took the letter from the teenage girl. 

“What is it?” Ellie asked. 

“It’s something important.” Malcolm said. “I don’t know what’s in it because I haven’t opened it yet.”

“Is it anything work related?”

“Go play Fortnite with your brother.” Malcolm said. 

Ellie nodded. She knew she had her uncle wrapped around her little finger. But she also knew when not to push her luck. So she walked out of the living room. 

Malcolm put his thumb under the sealed flap and held the letter under his chin while he opened it-with his right arm temporarily out of commission, he had to think of creative ways to solve his problems. 

He took the letter from the envelope and looked at it. It was indeed the results of the DNA test he’d ordered since Jamie had him paranoid about Twelve. This letter would tell him whether they shared DNA. And hopefully exonerate him in Jamie’s eyes.

As Lewis Capaldi started playing loudly from upstairs, Malcolm’s eyes scanned the letter and his heart sank. And then rose. And then started pumping a thousand miles an hour. His stomach was in knots and he didn’t know what to do or say. 

The DNA samples of Malcolm Tucker and Dougan Doctor showed a 99.9% match. 

Malcolm was Twelve’s father.

* * *

“_Hello? Hello? Are you there? Are you okay_?” A voice said down the receiver. 

“Erm..” he cleared his throat and rubbed his nose, “hi.”

“_Hello_. 

“I-I’m Malcolm Tucker. And in 1989, my daughter Maisie was stillborn.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not going to add any notes for context here except that this is a weird world that’s a mix of our world and TTOI and an AU where all the Doctors are siblings of varying ages, though it’s closer to our own world.  
If you want to know anything about this for context, just ask.


	2. Chapter 2

(May 1992)

Malcolm walked into the offices of the Glasgow Herald. It was his first day working for them and his first day doing journalism in Scotland since he’d spent the the beginning of his journalism career on Fleet Street. He didn’t care that he’d been making a name for himself there. He just had to be away from London. 

Malcolm had been assigned a desk and sat at it. He took out his notebook and pen and set them out on his desk, running his hand through his wild curly hair. It didn’t used to be as wild as it was. He just couldn’t be bothered getting a haircut. 

“A didnae ken it waur possibil fur a white man tae hae an Afro.” 

Malcolm turned to see a man around his age with his brown hair styled to resemble Kurt Cobain’s. 

“Isnae an Afro.” Malcolm patted his hair. 

“Jewfro.” The man leaned in. “Are ye Jewish?” 

“A’m nithin.” Malcolm said. “There isnae god.” 

“Hoo fuckin daur ye.” The man slammed his palm on Malcolm’s desk. “There is a god. An he disnae lyke ye. Ye’ll go richt tae hell, ye ken?” 

“James, stop harassing the new guy.” One of the journalists said from behind his desk.

“Fuck you.” The man now known to be James said. “I’ll harass whoever the fuck I want, yeah?”

“James.” The editor came from his office. “This guy’s come from Fleet Street, yeah. He’s a fucking asset to this paper. I can dump you quicker than it takes for me to snap my fucking fingers. Be nice.” 

James glowered at the editor, but sat down at his desk, which was next to Malcolm’s. “Yer fae Fleet Street.” He said. “La-di-fuckin-da. Bet ye went tae fuckin Oxbridge aye? Fuckin pish.”

“University o Glasgae.” Malcolm said. “A’m fae Glasgae. Went tae scuil in Glasgae. Moved tae London. Noo A’m back in Glasgae.” 

“Sae yer a Weegie.” James folded his arms. “Weegie bastard.” 

“Yer fae here.” Malcolm said. 

“A’m nae posh like ye.” James said. 

“A’m nae posh!” Malcolm snapped. “A waur a wee bairn in Gorbals. A grawn up there. Ye neer caw me ‘posh’ agen.”

“Aye. Wee Gorbals.” James nodded. “A’m Jamie. MacDonald. Na James.”

“Malcolm Tucker.” He said. “Neer caw me ‘Wee Gorbals’ agen aither.” 

“Whitfor?” Jamie, not James, asked. 

“Yer smaa than me.” Malcolm said. 

Jamie narrowed his eyes. “A’m gonnae fuckin-“

“Yer gonnae do fuck aw.” Malcolm leaned over to Jamie. “Noo yer gonnae wrap it afore ye getting skelped.” 

“Haud yer whisht!” Jamie snapped. “Fuck off!”

“_Ye_ can fuck off!” Malcolm stood up. “Yer a wee shite.”

“James, haud yer fuckin whisht!” A female journalist shouted from across the room. She stood up at her desk. “Unless ye wannae get intae his troosers!” 

“Fuck off!” Jamie shook his head. “I’m merriet, Jules!” He put his hand up and flashed her the V sign. 

“Yer married!” Jules walked over to Jamie’s desk. “Ye trained tae be a priest afore ye joined us.” 

“Don’t get involved with his dramas, Julie.” Another journalist said. He had a Scottish accent, but he definitely wasn’t from Glasgow or around there. He sounded more like he was from Edinburgh. 

“That a fuckin accusation?” Jamie asked, narrowing his eyes. “A love ma wife.” 

“Waur jist two years ago ye waur tryin tae get in my skirt.” Jules said. 

“A love Linda.” Jamie said. 

“Hey!” The editor shouted, appearing at his door. “Back to work! All of you!” 

Jules glowered at Jamie and went back to her desk. 

Malcolm sat down at his desk and made some notes in his notebook. He glanced over at Jamie, who was doing the same. 

“Sae ye waur a priest?” Malcolm asked.

“Na. A trained tae be a priest. A waur na a priest.” Jamie said. 

“Sae whitfor ye be a journalist noo?” Malcolm asked. 

“Acis A wanted tae.” Jamie said. “Whitfor _ye_ be a journalist?” 

“Acis...“ Malcolm paused. Why did he want to be a journalist? He wanted to help people and raise a voice to working class issues. People who don’t typically get a voice. “A wanted tae.” 

Jamie nodded, accepting Malcolm’s answer. “Us are gaein fur swally efter.” 

“Yer payin.” Malcolm said.

* * *

(April 2002)

Malcolm left his alcoholics support group with his head low. He may have been in Lambeth and not Westminster, but he lived in Lambeth and thus knew other people who lived in Lambeth. Once he was safely away from the vicinity, he turned on his mobile phone to find several missed calls and texts from his sister and her husband, Dan the British Airways Pilot. So he called back. 

“Dan, what do you want?” Malcolm asked, somewhat aggressively. 

“_Your sister’s giving birth_.” Dan said down the phone. “_Get here now._” 

“Where the fuck is ‘here’, Dan?” Malcolm asked. 

“Kings.” 

“Couldn’t have been St Thomas’s.” Malcolm groaned. 

“_She’s gone into labour, Malcolm, it’s progressing ridiculously fast. I didn’t know it was supposed to be this fast-it’s supposed to take hours or something, but-_“

“I’m already on my way, Jesus. I’ll get a bus.” Malcolm hung up and ran to the nearest bus stop to wait impatiently for the next bus.

When the bus came, Malcolm paid his fare and sat down only to wait impatiently there too. He shifted in his seat and bounced his leg and then bounced his other leg. He played with his phone, but the beeping on the keypad became too annoying after too long. 

It was only a half hour journey, but it felt so much longer. At least it wasn’t rush hour. 

Malcolm leaped out of his seat at his stop and ran off the bus and into the hospital. He barrelled through the halls before he realised he had no idea where the maternity ward was. And he had no idea where he was. So he flagged down a passing porter. 

“Do you happen to know where the maternity ward is?” He asked. 

“Is your wife giving birth?” The porter asked. 

“My sister.” Malcolm said. 

“Oh right.” The porter nodded and gave Malcolm the directions. 

Malcolm rushed as quickly as he could through the corridors, doing his best to avoid patients and staff, but tripped up and fell flat on his face from his own laces. 

A nurse stopped to help him to his feet and offered an ice pack, which Malcolm refused. 

He stopped off to the toilet and, in the mirror, saw a shiner forming. He finished up, washed his hands and left, knowing that there would be questions about that from Moira and Dan. 

After what felt like an eternity, Malcolm arrived on the maternity ward. And all memories of his daughter came rushing back. Being told that there was no heartbeat. Elaine having to push her out anyway. Holding his dead baby. Crying over his dead baby. The silence. The silence. _The silence. _

He didn’t notice that he was frozen to the spot and crying. 

“Sir, are you alright?” A nurse asked, bringing Malcolm back to reality. 

“Um... yeah.” Malcolm wiped the tear tracks from his cheeks with his sleeve. “Fine. Just... overwhelmed.” It wasn’t _really_ a lie. 

The nurse looked at Malcolm sceptically. 

“Do you know where I can find Moira McLeod?” Malcolm asked. 

The nurse pointed Malcolm to the room and he knocked on the door before walking in. 

Which he probably shouldn’t have done. There were medical personnel; an OB/GYN, a nurse and two midwives as well as Dan. Moira was lying on her back and was covered in sweat and screaming in pain as they were urging her to push. 

“Oh fuck.” Malcolm covered his bloodshot eyes. 

“Malcolm!” Moira shouted. “Malcolm don’t go! I need you! Please!” 

Malcolm nodded and walked towards the free side of Moira, avoiding looking at any baby coming through. He’d seen it once before with his own baby. He had no desire to see it again. 

“Malcolm.” Moira moaned in pain. “It hurts.” 

“I bet your eye hurts too, Malc.” Dan said. “What happened there?” 

“Oh.” Malcolm brought his fingers to his eye. “I fell.” 

“Ouch.” 

“Ouch for a black eye?!” Moira shouted. “I’m the fucking one squeezing a fucking small person through my fucking vagina! That’s fucking ouch!” She grabbed Malcolm’s hand and clamped down on it as she cried out in pain again. 

“Almost there.” One of the midwives said. 

“I can see the head now.” 

“Fuck you you little shite!” Moira cried. “Fuck this fucking baby! And fuck you too, Dan! _You_ did this to me!” 

“You wanted a baby-“

“Fuck you!” She roared in his face. 

Not five minutes later, the baby came into the world. 

Malcolm’s heart sank when he noticed that everything was quiet. There was no crying. The baby was silent. It couldn’t be happening again. Not to Moira. Not his little sister. 

He just became aware of the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. A high pitched whine followed it and his vision started going hazy. Tunnel vision. He dropped down to his knees. He couldn’t deal with this. Not again. 

Then came the most wonderful sound. The sound of a baby crying. A baby crying in the near vicinity. 

Malcolm lifted his head. The doctor and the midwives had saved the baby. 

He stood up and wiped his eyes again. 

Dan and Moira were crying with relief. 

One of the midwives wrapped the baby in a white blanket and handed it to Moira. “Congratulations. It’s a girl.” 

“A girl.” Malcolm’s voice cracked. “I have a niece.” 

“You have a niece.” Dan said. 

Malcolm wiped his eyes, yet again, and looked down at the baby. She looked like a potato. But he was instantly besotted.

He’d been sober for two months now. He knew he wanted to stay sober, but now he had the best reason to. He had to be a good role model for his niece as she grew up. Even if Moira and Dan would end up moving out at some point (after all, they’d only moved in because of his drug addictions), he wanted to be a good influence in this baby girl’s life. 

“I have a niece.” He repeated. 

* * *

(December 2005)

“Sae this is wee babby Malcolm.” Jamie said, picking up a photo of a baby from a box.

“Yer s’posed tae be helpin me move ma shit, na askin me aboot ma photos.” Malcolm said.

“Is it tho?” Jamie asked. 

“Aye.” Malcolm said. He took the photo from Jamie and turned it around, putting it back in his hand. 

“Fuckin hell.” Jamie exclaimed. 

“Wit?” Malcolm asked.

“Wee Malcolm Alasdair Tucker. October 19th 1959.” Jamie read. “Four pounds, six ounces.” 

“Yeah.” 

“That sae wee!” Jamie said. 

“Weel A wiz born early.” Malcolm said with a shrug. “Na ma fault.” 

“Na offence, mate, A cannae imagine ye bein sae wee.” Jamie said. 

“Yeah, A wiz naur twa months early.” Malcolm said. “S’posed tae be born in December. Na October.” 

“Jesus.” Jamie said. He put the photo down and picked up another one. This one was of a small baby in an incubator. “That ye agen.” 

Malcolm looked over Jamie’s shoulder. “Yeah. Da teuk that ane.” He said. “Ma Mam an Da werenae allood tae be wi me when A wiz in hospital. Sae they watched throu the gless.” 

“That’s sad.” Jamie said. 

“Aye, it waur the times.” Malcolm said. 

Jamie put that photo to one side as well. He lifted the box to see what was in the lower box. “Wit the hell is that!” He tried to stifle his laughter as he picked up another photo and handed it to Malcolm. 

“Ah.” Malcolm shook his head. He didn’t particularly want to discuss this one. “I fell oot a tree an broke ma leg.” 

“Yer tiny, Malc.” Jamie said. “The cast is huge-it’s naur-“

“A ken.” Malcolm said, putting the photo flat where Jamie couldn’t see it. Out of sight, out of mind. “

“An that’s-“

“Wee babby Moira, aye.” Malcolm nodded. “Ma Mam an Da teuk her tae see me after she waur born. A waur in hospital fur aboot a month.” 

“A month? Whitfor?” Jamie asked. 

“A broke ma leg.” Malcolm stood up. 

“Aye, but broken legs dinnae usually mean ye need tae be in hospital fur a month.” 

“Mine did, noo wrap it afore I throw ye oot ma hoose” Malcolm said. 

“A broke ma arm as a wean.” Jamie said. 

“Sae did A.” Malcolm said. “Flew over the handlebars on ma bike.” 

“Jumpin off a wall.” Jamie said. “A wanted tae be Superman. Didnae jist break ma arm, also knocked a few teeth oot. Babby teeth o course.”

Malcolm smirked. Everyone did stupid things as children. That was the proof. He lifted the picture up again and handed it to Jamie. “A climbed up a tree after ma brother, Ian, an his freend, David. Lost ma footing an fell aboot twenty foot doon. Fur a wean that’s a big faw an ma femur snapped.” 

“Yer femur?” Jamie asked. 

“Aye.” Malcolm rubbed his thigh. 

“Oh.” Jamie nodded. 

“Aye. ‘Oh’.” Malcolm said. 

“Is that witfor ye run weird?” Jamie asked. 

Malcolm pulled a face. “Na.” He said. “I dinnae run weird.”

“Ye do, mate.” Jamie said. “Ye run lyke a penguin. Wi a waddle.”

”Penguins dinnae waddle.” Malcolm said. 

”Penguins fuckin waddle, mate.” Jamie chuckled. 

Malcolm’s phone started to ring. He picked it up to answer it. “Hello?” He said. “Oh my god you’re joking. Already? Of course. I’ll be right there.” He hung up the phone and shoved it in his pocket. 

“Who waur that?” Jamie asked. 

“Ane o Moira’s colleagues.” Malcolm stood up. “She’s haed her babby. Already.”

”Really?” Jamie asked. 

“Aye, it teuk a hour last time.” Malcolm said. “Less this time. Sae A’m goin tae hospital tae be wi her an wee babby acos Dan’s in Orlando.”

“Girl or boy?” Jamie asked. 

“Dunno.” Malcolm said. “Didnae ask.” 

The two of them left behind all the photos and memories and rushed out of the door.   
“Which hospital?” Jamie asked as he climbed into his car. 

“St Thomas’s.” Malcolm said. “Ellie waur born in Kings.” He walked over to the passenger side and climbed in.

“An ye waur born in-“

”Don’t push it.” Malcolm said. “Mon then. Hospital.”

Jamie drove to the hospital, stopping for traffic every so often. They listened to the radio as he drove, but nothing interesting happened other than the break up of Parliament for the Christmas recess. 

At the hospital, Jamie and Malcolm hurried to the maternity ward. 

Jamie stopped off in the gift shop. 

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Malcolm asked. “Get out of the shop, you numpty.” 

“But what if-what about a teddy bear or something. For the baby.” 

“Get the baby something another time.” Malcolm grabbed Jamie’ wrist. “You don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl.” 

“That’s why they have yellow bears, Malc.” Jamie said. 

“Come on!” Malcolm said. 

Malcolm walked briskly down the corridors, following the signs to the maternity ward. Jamie hurried after him. 

When they got there, Malcolm asked where Moria was and then he walked into her room. 

Moira was sitting at the side of a hospital bed, watching over a plastic bassinet where a baby was lying, half wrapped in a white blanket.

“Niece or nephew?” Malcolm asked.

”Nephew.” Moira said. 

“He got a name?” Jamie asked. 

Moira nodded. “I think it’s one you two’ll enjoy.” She said. “Dan and I, we agreed on Keir.” 

“Nice Scottish name.” Jamie said. 

“It’s after Keir Hardie.” Moira said. 

“Keir Hardie?” Jamie asked. 

“Aye. Keir Hardie. The founder of our Party.” Malcolm said. 

Jamie frowned slightly. “Was he-“

”He was Scottish.” Moira confirmed. She looked down at her baby. “His middle name is Iain. After our brother.” 

“Is it okay if I hold him?” Malcolm asked.

”Of course.” Moira said. 

Malcolm walked over and reached down into the bassinet, picking up baby Keir. “Hey. You’re named after a good man. Two good men. And you’re going to be a good boy for your Mammy. And Daddy. And your Uncle Malcolm.” 

Baby Keir looked up at Malcolm and Malcolm looked down at him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said this was a one shot. It’s just a few new vignettes.  
The first is Malcolm meeting Jamie. This one is very bilingual as the dialogue takes place almost entirely in Scots. I’ve never written this much in Scots before and I’m almost certain I’ve got some things wrong as I am not a speaker of Scots. If anyone who speaks Scots wants to point out what’s wrong, be my guest.  
The second is the birth of Malcolm’s niece Elspeth, or Ellie. His reaction in the delivery room is completely, I would suppose, flashback-y. Not entirely unreasonable.  
The final one, Keir’s birth. Some people do have really quick labours. Jamie and Malcolm talking in Scots again and I know I’ve got things wrong.  
Yeah, premature babies generally survived. Incubators aren’t a new thing, they’ve been around since the turn of last century, so it’s not entirely unreasonable that a prematurely born baby Malcolm would be in one for a while. Also parents weren’t allowed to cuddle their preemie babies like they do now, they just had to watch through glass. Sad, right?  
I’m basing Malcolm’s birth date of October on the timeline of S3. Mid to late October seems about right for him to have received the Cunt Cake. Why the 19th? I don’t know. Why not?  
I just felt it was funny for Malcolm and Jamie to discuss their childhood accidents.  
And yes, Keir Hardie was the founder of the Labour Party. It’s who Shadow Brexit Secretary Sir Keir Starmer was named for too.


End file.
